


Roses and Rust

by Essie_Cat



Series: Tea and Cake [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anxiety, Body Image, Chubby Kink, Chubby Theodore, Draco Malfoy Needs a Hug, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Draco Malfoy is Bad at Feelings, Draco owns a teashop because reasons, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Teasing, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:46:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26844616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Essie_Cat/pseuds/Essie_Cat
Summary: Draco has spent five years trying to put his old life behind him. When Theodore Nott shows up at his door, he's forced to face some things he’s been trying to escape, and some complicated new feelings on top of that, too.He’s pretty sure Nott wasn’t always this infuriating. He’s definitely sure Nott wasn’t always this chubby.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Theodore Nott
Series: Tea and Cake [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2041034
Comments: 35
Kudos: 123





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> me: you’ve been writing a lot of fanfic lately, what about your original fiction, and NaNo’s coming up soon –
> 
> also me: but what if Theo was chubby and Draco was totally into it
> 
>   
> Just FYI in case it's something you'd rather avoid, there's a small amount of fat-shaming (or implied fat-shaming) in this. It's certainly not a major aspect of the story, though.
> 
> Similarly, if it's a mystery to you why someone would want to read/write about chubby guys in too-tight clothes, this might not be the story for you. It's pretty mild as far as kink goes, but Draco spends a lot of time being fairly, um, _distracted_ by Theo's weight. 
> 
> But if this sounds like your sort of thing and you're up for some angsty Draco and snarky Theo, then I hope you enjoy :)

Draco yawns. He stretches like a cat, extending his arms above his head, kicking his long legs out in front of him. He glances at the clock, which seems to be moving just as ponderously as it had been when he last looked three minutes ago. 

It’s barely four o'clock yet. But no one’s been in for at least an hour. The temptation to say _sod it_ and turn the sign on the door to _Closed_ is growing stronger by the minute.

He’s spent most of the day perched on a stool behind the counter, hunched over a Muggle paperback, trying to ignore the empty tables staring accusingly back at him. Slow days like this are excellent for his reading habits, if not for his account books. He’s ploughed through three novels this week alone. This one, a Muggle romance, is thoroughly ridiculous and completely fascinating. Is this really what people _enjoy?_ Is this sort of nonsense aspirational to them? Draco is reminded, as often he is, that there is nothing more bizarre than _normal people._

When the door opens with a tinkle of the little bell and an actual customer walks in, Draco nearly falls off his stool. 

The guy stands for a moment in the open doorway, letting cold air in, as if he’s regretting his choice now that he’s seen the inside of the place. Draco does his best not to shoot him a glare. But he seems to decide that he does want to be here after all, committing to stepping inside and letting the door swing shut behind him. 

He shakes his head a little, pulls off his woolly hat to reveal a mop of curly dark hair underneath. He’s a stocky guy, dressed simply enough in jeans and a dark jacket, but with a lurid green scarf wrapped around his neck against the cold.

From his stool behind the counter, Draco nods perfunctorily. There’s not much to say. The guy can sit at any table he likes; he’s spoiled for choice. When he comes up to order, Draco will make him whatever he asks for and then leave him well alone. This isn’t the sort of place you come for a chat. Draco has never been the sort of person to give off _that_ kind of aura. 

He goes back to his book, expecting the man to at least choose a table first. He’s a little disconcerted when he senses the man standing on the other side of the counter, still in his coat and scarf, a looming presence on the fringe of Draco’s vision.

He sets down his book, looks up and says, in his best customer service voice, ‘What can I get you?’

‘Very professional,’ the man says, something like amusement in his tone. ‘Straight to the point. Are you always like this at work? Or are you just not happy to see me, Draco?’

Draco stares at him. Slowly, he stands up from his stool, eyes raking over the stranger before him. He isn’t often wrong-footed like this. 

The man sighs. ‘You don’t recognise me, do you? I’ll try to take that as a compliment.’

That’s not true, not entirely. It’s more that Draco has developed a habit of not looking people directly in the eye, of averting his gaze from their face, of viewing them in blurry abstract rather than specific detail. It's less effort that way. This man has a thick build and dark hair; those are the basic facts Draco can grasp with a cursory look. He is a patron in Draco’s establishment who is presumably willing to pay for his services; that is all the information Draco requires.

But now he forces himself to look properly. The curling hair is a little longer than it used to be. The crooked smile is the same, the eyebrow arching in disapproval, the steady blue gaze underneath. He’s got a short beard, which Draco is frankly a little jealous of, as his own facial hair would never be that forthcoming and cooperative.

The beard isn’t the only thing that’s different, though. Theodore Nott used to be a scrawny little guy, and the man before him is decidedly … heavier. The beard doesn’t quite disguise how his cheeks have filled out or the pudge sitting under his jaw. His belly rounds out the front of his jumper, and his jacket’s unbuttoned. Draco wonders whether he _can_ button it, whether the two sides would meet, whether the fastenings would stay in place. 

He realises he’s actually getting a little flustered as he tries not to gape at the expanded waistline of his former classmate, and he says quickly, ‘You’re dressed as a Muggle.’

He’s done a surprisingly good job of it, too. Well, apart from the ugly hat – dark purple, with a lilac bobble on top and long swaying tassels down the sides – and the ridiculous lime green scarf, which Draco rather wants to throttle him with. 

‘So are you,’ Nott points out, and Draco feels a little self-conscious, even though his black slacks and jumper are everyone’s idea of bland and inoffensive. 

‘Nott, I … Well, this is certainly a surprise,’ he says, as close to a cool, collected drawl as he can possibly muster. 

Nott raises an eyebrow. ‘Can’t remember my first name, eh?’

Did he always have so much _nerve?_

‘Hello, Theodore,’ Draco says tersely, trying valiantly to pull himself together. ‘How lovely to see you after all this time. I hope you’re doing well. Please give my best to the family, etc, etc. Now, I repeat, what can I get you?’

‘Shall we have a drink?’ Theo asks. He glances unsubtly around at the empty tables. ‘If you can spare the time.’

Draco stares at him for a moment, unreasonably furious with the man. ‘Sit down, then,’ he says testily, turning around to make some tea. 

Theo settles himself at a table by the window, where a little sun is doing its best to seep through, though give it half an hour and dusk will already have settled. The pale autumn light bounces off Theo’s dark curls and gives a glow to his pale skin. He’s taken off his scarf and jacket, hanging them over the back of the chair (Draco is disproportionately annoyed by this when there’s a perfectly good coat stand by the door). The lack of a jacket emphasises how snug his jumper is over his belly, and Draco, purportedly making tea across the room, is mortified to realise that he’s staring.

_Get a fucking grip, Draco._

He slams mugs and a teapot and a small jug of milk onto a tray, furiously wipes up the spot of milk that he’s spilled, and carries the drinks over. He considers sniping that Theo had better pay him for both of them, but he bites it back, doesn’t want to so much as touch on the subject of money. This whole business is embarrassing enough as it is, being caught off guard like that, and to have Theo see him wearing this stupid fucking apron and carrying mugs of bloody tea like some sort of house elf. To have Theo see how unmistakably _Muggle_ the place is.

And Theo, without shame, says straight up, ‘This is the last place I’d expect to find you, Draco.’

He keeps his face blank, watches as the other man spoons sugar into his drink from the little pot in the middle of the rickety table. ‘That’s the idea.’

Theo laughs. ‘Were you always this dark and brooding? No, let me answer that – you were. You definitely were.’

Draco purses his lips.

‘But we were all a bit brooding, back in the day, weren’t we? Sitting around in those dungeons, moralising about the end of the world as if we knew a damn thing about it. Most of us grew out of the teenage angst phase, though.’

‘What are you doing here?’ Draco asks, firmly redirecting the conversation.

Theo shrugs. ‘I was just in the area. Thought I’d drop by.’

No, he wasn’t. Not in _this_ area. But the lie is so blatant that it’s barely worth commenting on.

Draco asks, ‘Did Pansy send you?’

Theo smirks. ‘If you think she’s still pining after you after all these years, think again, my friend. No one else knows you’re here, if that’s what you’re worried about. I haven’t told them. And I won’t, if you don’t want me to.’

‘Do as you please,’ Draco says, fiercely neutral, though his insides are writhing at the thought of the rest of his old classmates showing up at his door, pressing him for answers he won’t give, demanding free cups of tea and Draco’s time and attention. But he can’t help asking, ‘How did you know I was here?’

Theo takes a slurp of his tea. ‘It took a lot of work. Some top-level sleuthing. Weeks of research and preparation. A small amount of stalking, tracking your every movement, that sort of thing…’

Draco raises an eyebrow.

‘I talked to your mother,’ Theo says, which should, perhaps, have been obvious. ‘She was only too keen to tell me. Very eager for me to come and see you, too. I think she’s worried. A bit … confused … about what you’re doing here.’

_Here._ In a quiet little corner of Muggle London. Baking cakes and serving drinks. Trying to hold down a business he barely knows how to run. 

Draco knows his mother worries. All of her letters contain carefully worded hints about how he should really come home and live with her at the Manor, and about jobs she’s heard of from someone-or-other at the Ministry or Gringotts, and he’s grown so used to them that he barely notices them anymore. She’s a little more subtle in person, though he suspects that’s because she’s afraid of scaring him away, afraid he won’t visit anymore, which he does rarely enough as it is. 

When Draco doesn’t respond, Theo takes another sip of his tea. The angle causes the cute bit of pudge at his jawline to fold beneath his chin, noticeable even with the beard. Theo meets his eye and, fuck, is it obvious that Draco's been staring? 

‘What’s with the name?’ Theo asks. ‘Rusty’s. Does it mean something?’

‘It – ah – I didn’t choose it. I didn’t change the name when I bought the place. The previous owner named it after her dog, I believe.’ 

Feeling flustered again, Draco gets up for absolutely no reason and flits back over to the counter, pouring himself a glass of water he doesn’t really want, just to grasp a moment where he doesn't have to look at Theo's mischievous blue eyes. On impulse, he grabs a couple of pre-packed Muggle chocolate bars as well, taking them back with him and tossing them on the table in front of Theo.

Theo picks up one of the gold-wrapped biscuits, intrigued. ‘What the fuck is a Twix?’

Draco watches as he drinks his tea and eats his Twix (proclaiming it to be _delicious)_ and chatters on about the weather and the shop and the mug Draco served him tea in. The whole thing is more than a little overwhelming and at this point Draco is existing on autopilot, nodding occasionally at what Theo is saying, raising a sceptical eyebrow, saying as little as possible.

Theo drains the dregs of tea from his mug and pushes his chair back from the table. The squeak against the floor feels indecently loud in the silence. ‘Well, thank you for the tea, Draco. And for this.’ He picks up the other Twix, examines the packet carefully again, and slips it into his jacket pocket. ‘For the road,’ he says cheerfully, and somehow Draco finds himself biting back a laugh, as if the unnecessary line is the wittiest thing he’s ever heard. ‘What do I owe you?’ he asks, and Draco brushes it away.

The whole thing is painfully, desperately _weird._ He still doesn’t really understand why Theo is here, why he made the effort to seek Draco out after all this time. Why he stayed for the duration of one cup of tea and now can't leave quickly enough. 

He’s regretting it, Draco realises. That’s why. He thought this would be different. He thought Draco would be like he always was, and they’d fall back into the easy manner and conversation they’d always had around each other. Two boys raised the same way with the same values, who understood each other’s lives and goals and expectations, who had very nearly followed the same path. 

And now Theo has witnessed for himself what a mess Draco has made of his life, and he can go back home and have a good laugh about it with Pansy and Blaise and Greg and all the rest.

Draco doesn’t want him to go, not really. Not before he can do something, anything, to prove himself. But he isn’t sure what will happen if he asks Theo to stay, what they would do, what they could possibly have to talk about. 

But then Theo says, ‘See, this wasn’t too terrible, was it? We should do this again. Not let another five years go by before we see each other, eh?’

Draco is so thrown by this that he only manages a vague grunt in response. He hopes he’s pulling all of this off as dignified silence – the sort of haughty indifference befitting of a Malfoy – but something tells him Theo isn’t fooled.

‘Look,’ Theo says, ‘how about I give you my address and you can –’

‘Put that away,’ Draco says quickly. 

Theo pauses, glancing at the wand he’s pulled out of his jacket pocket. He glances around pointedly. ‘It’s just us here, Draco.’

‘Anyone could walk in.’ He produces a pen and paper from his own pocket and gets Theo to scrawl down his address. He sticks the scrap of paper back in his pocket without looking at it. He won’t write. He knows he won’t.

Theo wraps the ridiculous green scarf around his neck again and pulls on the equally horrible bobble hat. With the jacket back on, Draco finds his eye drawn to it again. It’s definitely too small. The sides definitely wouldn’t close if he tried. Definitely too much tummy in the way. 

As soon as Theodore Nott is out the door, Draco turns the shop sign firmly to _Closed_ and retreats upstairs for a large glass of wine and a long lie-down.

*

Nott shows up at Rusty’s at the same time every week, three weeks in a row. Regular as clockwork, Wednesday at three-thirty. 

He beams and waves at Draco when he enters, and Draco grunts at him from behind the counter. He hangs his jacket and scarf on the coat stand like he’s supposed to. He acquires a favourite table and refuses to sit anywhere else. He efficiently works his way through everything on Draco’s limited menu, never failing to praise his selection of teas and devour all the sweets and pastries that Draco places in front of him. He sometimes makes _small talk_ with other customers, if they’re present, which is frankly unbearable and not the sort of thing Draco wants to encourage in his establishment. 

By the third week, he shows up on Wednesday _and_ Thursday. 

Thursday’s offerings are cherry and vanilla scones and blueberry lemon cake. Theo had ordered a slice of the latter when he arrived, accompanied by a pot of Earl Grey, and now only crumbs remain. On his way back from clearing up another table, Draco scoops up Theo’s empty plate as well.

Theo looks up at him. If he thinks this is odd, he’s good at disguising it. Apart from one innocuous remark on that first day, he never comments on it, as though baking cakes and clearing up dirty cups – without magic, no less – is exactly what he’d always imagined Draco Malfoy would find himself doing.

‘Cake was nice,’ Theo says, offhand, as Draco adds his plate to the pile he’s carrying.

Draco feels somewhat embarrassed even at this simple compliment. His mouth feels a little dry, and he means to say, ‘Looks like you enjoyed it’, but instead he manages to come out with, ‘You look like you enjoy it.’ 

Theo, not unfairly, clearly interprets this in a certain way. He raises an eyebrow. 

Draco’s brain seems to shut down. He definitely hadn’t meant it like _that._ He’s never acknowledged Theo’s appearance out loud, the extra weight he’s carrying these days, even if his private thoughts are _very_ vocal on the matter, and if his eyes can’t help an appreciative glance every now and again. 

And perhaps it’s this enforced silence that’s making things worse. Yes, that must be why he finds it so awkward, why he finds himself increasingly flustered whenever the little bell chimes and he looks up from his book and it’s Theo walking in. Perhaps, if he’d just made a casual remark about Theo’s changed appearance when he walked in that first time, all of this could have been avoided. 

(But, no. That seems like something Draco would have done at fourteen, fifteen. Teenage Draco would have cracked jokes about Theo _letting himself go_ and being _such a fucking slob_ and _Merlin, imagine doing_ that _to yourself._ Teenage Draco would have ignored all the evidence before him of how happy Theo seems these days, how comfortable he seems with himself. He would definitely have ignored how damned good mid-twenties Draco thinks he looks like this.)

Draco had made an unconscious decision not to mention Theo's weight unless Theo did. Which he hasn’t, so Draco hasn’t either. Until now, when he’s said something ridiculous, and his obviously embarrassed silence has just made the situation far, far worse than it needed to be.

‘That isn’t –’ Draco begins, almost stuttering. Malfoys do not _stutter._ ‘I wasn’t trying to imply that you – that I –’

As he flounders, Theo’s grin widens. He looks more amused than offended.

‘What a way with words you have, Draco.’

And then, somehow, Draco thinks he can salvage the situation by saying, ‘Another slice? On the house?’

Theo snorts with laughter. ‘Really, Draco?’

‘Suit yourself,’ Draco snaps, snatching up the empty mug and the teapot and stalking back behind the counter, desperately hoping that no other customers overheard that deeply inappropriate interaction.

Unfortunately, Theo follows him to the counter. ‘I didn’t say no. I’m not sure I would ever turn down free cake.’

Draco struggles not to glance down at Theo’s midriff, doesn’t trust himself to form words at this time, and silently cuts the man another slice of cake.

‘You probably think I’m a right pig,’ Theo says cheerfully. ‘I’m not like this all the time, though. I eat very healthily at home. Not entirely by choice. Daphne’s very militant about the evils of sugar. It’s best not to get her started.’

‘Daphne?’

‘Yeah. Greengrass. Remember her?’

‘I do,’ Draco says stiffly, trying to pretend the revelation that Theo is dating one of their old classmates is of no importance to him whatsoever. ‘I’m sure you make quite the charming pair.’ 

‘Bloody hell, Draco, don’t be disgusting. Straight girls and bi guys can just be strictly platonic housemates, you know. It’s definitely not like that. For one thing, I definitely eat too much cake for her liking.’

Draco raises an eyebrow, clears his throat, and hands Theo another plate of blueberry and lemon sponge.

*

After the last non-Theo customer has left, and Draco has turned off the coffee machine, he takes off his apron and rolls it up. Theo is still reading his book as though completely unaware of his surroundings, and of Draco’s desire to leave his workday behind him and slink upstairs to his dinner and his dog and his evening of quiet solitude. Draco considers turning the lights off one by one until he gets the hint, though even that might not do it.

Instead, he sits down in the chair opposite Theo’s, and he finally looks up from his book. 

‘What are you doing here, Theo?’ 

Theo raises an eyebrow. ‘Reading. Finishing my tea. Is this a not-so-subtle hint that I should leave? I thought you might make an exception for such an old friend –’

‘Why do you keep coming?’ Draco asks, as though his initial meaning had not been painfully clear.

‘For the cake.’ Theo’s grinning, which is infuriating and deeply unhelpful. Draco’s stony expression clearly conveys that adequately, because Theo sighs and says, ‘Honestly, Draco?’

‘Honesty would be preferable, yes.’

Theo sighs again. So damned dramatic. ‘You know why I’m here. And you’re flattered, really, that I’m here, that after five years one of us has come to find you.’

‘I didn’t need _finding,’_ Draco says, plainly hearing the petulance in his own voice. ‘I’m not some lost dog that needs bringing home.’

‘No. You’re definitely more of a cat,’ Theo says, smirking at his own wit, and Draco prays for patience. 

Then he sighs again and closes his book, the pages falling together with a small thud. He leans forward a little, knotting his fingers together and resting his hands on the table.

‘I want you to come back, Draco. Stop hiding out here and pretending everyone you’ve known your whole life doesn’t exist. Come to my place and hang out with me and Daphne. Come for dinner or drinks or whatever with the old gang. We’re all going to a pub quiz tomorrow night, at the Serpentine, down Knockturn Alley. I know they’d like to see you. And I think it would be good for you.’

It’s infuriating to hear him talk like this, as if he knows a damned thing about Draco. As if it were all that simple. Draco leans back in his chair, crosses his arms. ‘You seem to think you know me rather well.’

‘I think I might,’ Theo says easily. ‘But you know all this. You’ve known this the whole time, you just wanted to hear me say it.’

Draco’s chest is starting to feel tight. He fiddles with the cuff of his sleeve, pointedly holding Theo’s gaze. ‘If any of them have anything to say to me, they are more than welcome to write.’

‘You’re the one who’s been avoiding them,’ Theo points out. ‘It’s your job to offer the olive branch.’

‘And yet you seem very keen to do that for me.’

‘I can’t make you do anything, Draco. But I’d like you to know that the option’s there, if you want it. That the door is always open.’

The two-person table they’re sitting at isn’t that big. Truth be told, Theo is probably a little too wide for the chair he’s sitting on, not that Draco has been paying attention to such things. But the table is small, an insubstantial barrier between them, and their closeness hits Draco like a rush of cold air. Theo’s still leaning forwards, arms resting on the table, and Draco could, if he chose, lean in towards him, close the gap between them. But he doesn’t. If he moved his leg a fraction, he’s pretty sure it would bump into Theo’s under the table. But he doesn’t do that, either.

‘All of that was a long time ago,’ he says, a little too harshly. ‘Pansy, Daphne, Greg, all of them ... it’s not the right time for that. And I’m certainly not going to a _pub quiz_ in Knockturn Alley. That sounds like a fucking nightmare.’

Theo watches him steadily, saying nothing.

Draco knows he’s being rude, petulant, ungrateful. The words are spilling out of him and he makes no effort to stop them. It’s better when he says nothing at all. But Theo’s looking at him like he understands, and that’s worse – that’s infinitely worse than if he just hated Draco, than if he’d just forgotten about him like the rest of them probably have and left him alone in this strange little life he’s carved out for himself. 

But then Draco says, ‘Perhaps we could reach a compromise.’

Theo smiles his crooked smile. ‘I’m listening.’

‘We could have dinner,’ Draco says. ‘You and I. You’re here often enough as it is. And you refuse to leave when I make it very obvious that I’m trying to close up. So you might as well stay for some food, too.’ He tries to say the whole thing as though the idea has just occurred to him now, on the spur of the moment. As though it is of minimal importance to him whether Theo accepts or rebukes him.

He expects Theo to smile even more brightly in that infuriating way of his, or to throw back his head and laugh, or to look smug, as if he knows that's what will annoy Draco the most. But he keeps his crooked smile where it is, and he says, ‘Sure, Draco. Sounds nice.’

They agree on Saturday. They’ll meet here, at Rusty's, because this is the only place where both of them exist these days, Draco thinks, as if outside of these walls they’re both entirely different people with nothing in common, nothing to say to each other. His mouth feels dry and his chest feels tight again and he nods curtly as Theo finally packs his things away.

He pulls on his jacket, the same one he always wears – presumably he doesn’t have many Muggle clothes – which is no closer to fitting properly than it was the first time Draco saw him in it. The two sides of fabric hang stubbornly far apart. Draco is struck with a sudden urge to lean over and pull them together, just to see how far they’ll reach, to ask Theo to suck in and allow Draco to try and fasten those damned buttons over his gut, to watch Theo’s cheeks flush above his beard as the task proved fruitless.

‘I’ll see you on Saturday, then,’ Theo says, hovering in the doorway, cold air rushing in from outside.

‘Yes.’ Draco swallows. ‘Saturday.’

Theo smiles, the bell chimes, and the door swings shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure how much love there is for this ship, but I'm a bit obsessed with Draco/Theo at the moment, so hopefully there's at least a couple of people out there who agree with me. If you've made it this far, thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 2

Draco spends all of Friday thinking about Saturday, and all of Saturday thinking about Saturday evening. Theo’s coming to meet him when he closes at five-thirty. 

At three-thirty, he sneaks upstairs to his flat and changes out of the black trousers and turtleneck he’s been wearing all day. The previous night – after several outfit changes, some colourful swearing at his wardrobe, and really an unreasonable amount of angst over a casual dinner with an old friend that doesn’t even _mean_ anything – he’d decided on a dark cashmere jumper that makes his hair look especially silvery, and a pair of slim-fit grey trousers that make his arse look frankly _fantastic._

He’d thought about wearing robes. He wonders if Theo might, if he only wears jeans, jumpers, terrible scarves and too-small jackets to blend in with Draco’s Muggle clientele. But Draco only ever wears robes these days when he goes to visit his mother, so that she doesn’t sniff at the ‘horrible Muggle fashions’ he’s apparently partaking in, and so she doesn’t worry about him and his ‘eccentricities’ any more than he knows she already does.

Theo arrives a little before closing time. Draco has already changed and removed his apron and, admittedly, been into his office twice to check his hair in the mirror. He’s so determined not to be weird about the whole thing that he practically ignores Theo when he enters the shop and sits down at his now-customary table by the window. Draco fusses about behind the counter, counting change and sorting teaspoons for absolutely no reason, until he realises Theo is watching him. He throws over a smile when he realises Draco is looking, easily charming. Draco drops three of the spoons. 

When the last customer leaves, Draco practically shadows them to the door, locking it behind them and drawing the curtains across the front windows with almost indecent haste.

Theo follows him across the room. Employs that crooked smile of his. ‘Hello, Draco.’

‘Good evening, Theodore.’

He looks like he might have dressed up a little, in the same casual-not-casual way that Draco has. He’s in dark jeans and a grey jumper, but the collar peeking out of the top of it is sporting an interesting teal-and-mustard flowered pattern that Draco is fairly certain, on anyone else, he would find positively repulsive. But Theo looks good. 

Perhaps Theo is appraising him just as much in return, because he says, ‘You look nice.’

‘I see you can look smart, when you make the effort,’ Draco says coolly. ‘Though I’m not sure about this.’ He reaches out and tugs at the flowery collar.

‘Well, I can take it off if you prefer.’

Draco raises an eyebrow at him. He’s pretty sure Theo wasn’t always like this, didn’t always have this easy confidence about him. The Theo he remembers from school was so much more reserved, though witty and wry when he wanted to be, and straight-talking when the situation demanded it.

Draco’s hand is still on Theo’s collar, teasing the material between his pale fingers. He steps in close enough that his flat torso bumps into Theo’s round belly and – well, fuck. That just about ruins him.

His lips crash into Theo’s. Theo’s hands are at Draco’s narrow waist, his grip firm. His beard is surprisingly soft, a gentle brush against Draco’s cheeks. He’s not used to that. That, and the comfortable push of Theo’s stomach between them, are what’s hitting Draco the most, what’s reminding him of how different things are now.

(The thing is, they’ve done this before. Once, twice, countless times. Fleeting moments at the Manor or at Theo’s father’s house during the school holidays, moments they never acknowledged to each other when the next Hogwarts term began. Back then, Draco had felt so strongly that it was _wrong,_ that he wasn’t supposed to want boys the way he did. It had been such a relief that at least he liked girls too, and he could take Pansy home to dinner with his parents and reassure them that he was fucking someone they approved of. Reassure them that he’d be the son they wanted and give them everything they expected of him.)

And perhaps that’s what Theo thinks this is, now. Perhaps he thinks that they can do this again and everything will be like it was, that Draco will abandon his strange little sanctuary here and return to the fold. Return so that Pansy and Blaise can pity him, he and Goyle can share painful silences, his mother can be relieved he’s back on the right path with the right people and the right goals…

‘Draco?’

He’s pulled away. Theo’s looking at him, uncertain, though he still has a firm grip on Draco’s hips, and that’s reassuring, somehow. He meets Theo’s steady blue eyes and leans in again, kissing him more gently this time, trying to give himself a moment to ease into it. 

But it isn’t long before Draco is feeling impatient with his own attempt at patience, and he’s deepening the kiss, making embarrassing little noises of pleasure. Theo’s hands are in his hair, probably messing it up something awful; Theo’s directing him back towards the centre of the room, pushing him against one of the rickety tables, half-lifting him onto it, which elicits another undignified groan from Draco. He’s pushing at the hem of Theo’s jumper, trying to tug it up over his stomach, feeling a jolt of guilt and a thrill of excitement even at this innocent touch.

‘Eager,’ Theo tells him, and bloody hell, does he always have to sound so amused? But he acquiesces, taking his own hands off Draco for a moment and tugging off his jumper in a slightly ungainly motion, as if it’s a struggle to navigate the material over the curves of his body. 

The removal of the jumper doesn’t do Theo’s shirt any favours. It’s exactly as ugly as Draco had suspected. But Theo looks good. The shirt fits nicely, not too small, but certainly not doing anything to try and hide his shape. He looks _really_ good.

Is this what Draco wanted to happen, expected, hoped for? He’d been the one to invite Theo for dinner, the one to kiss him so insistently. He doesn’t know where this goes, where it ends up, how it fits into the overall plan of what Draco wants and what Theo wants when those two things don’t seem to be the same. 

But Draco knows what he wants for tonight, and that’s for Theodore Nott to fuck him.

But not here. Very much not here. On the one hand, Draco could happily stay in this position – perched on one of the rickety tables, legs wrapped around Theo’s thick waist – almost indefinitely. On the other hand, he wants to maintain at least the _minimum_ of decorum.

‘Not here,’ he manages to gasp as Theo nips at his neck, as his warm hands tease at the waistband of Draco’s trousers. ‘It’s not – hygienic.’

Theo gives a splutter of laughter. ‘No, I suppose not. Good priorities, Draco.’

‘I just have standards, Theodore.’ 

Draco gives him a push in the chest, though he doesn’t expect it to achieve anything. Theo is sturdy, to say the least. But he gets the message and, sighing, takes a step back. He lets Draco grab him by the arm and drag him behind the counter, into the office at the back, and up the stairs that lead to Draco’s flat. He barely even has time to feel anxious about Theo seeing where he lives, seeing this part of himself that he prefers to keep private from everyone. 

When he opens the door to the flat, there’s some excitable barking, and Theo emits a not-entirely-dignified sound. ‘Ah!’

Mara the cocker spaniel sniffs Draco as if to ascertain that he’s the same human he was when he left this morning. Satisfied, she moves on to Theo, bounding over to him and jumping up in greeting.

‘Who’s this?’ Theo coos at her in an annoyingly endearing manner. He’s immediately on his knees, giving Mara an enthusiastic belly rub, while she thumps her tail against the floor, tongue lolling. 

‘Theo, Mara. Mara, Mr Theodore Nott,’ Draco says. He hovers awkwardly in the doorway to the kitchen, rather feeling like he’s being cockblocked by his own dog.

‘You are _lovely,’_ Theo’s saying. ‘Why haven’t I met you before, eh? Has he been hiding you from me? We’ll be great friends, yes we will –’

Draco clears his throat pointedly.

Theo grins up at him. ‘Jealous?’

‘Impatient,’ Draco corrects.

‘It’s your fault. You shouldn’t’ve hidden your cute dog from me.’ 

With a frankly insulting amount of reluctance, Theo gets up off the floor and joins Draco in the kitchen doorway. Well, not quite joins him. Moves to stand closer to him, anyway. Draco’s somehow feeling more nervous than he had downstairs, where everything had happened so suddenly and yet had felt so natural. The fact that Theo doesn’t immediately come over and kiss him, the fact he leaves any space between them at all, is making him more nervous still.

‘I can’t believe you have a dog,’ Theo says. ‘A _friendly_ one, not some terrifying guard dog.’ 

‘I can’t compete with her,’ Draco finds himself saying. ‘I’m well aware of that.’

This seems to encourage Theo to step forwards, place his hands on Draco’s narrow hips and pull him closer. ‘You’re not bad yourself,’ he allows.

He kisses him again – warm and sweet, so familiar and yet so different – and Draco melts into it. But then he feels Theo tugging at the hem of his jumper, looking for permission.

_Shit._

Unlike Theo with his untucked shirt, Draco is still as prim and proper and fully dressed as it's possible to be. Under the jumper, he’s wearing a short-sleeved t-shirt, and suddenly this feels like the worst mistake he could possibly have made.

He hadn’t thought about this. Why the _fuck_ hadn’t he thought about this?

His hands seem to work more quickly than his brain, because he’s already batting Theo’s hands away, slipping his own up Theo’s shirt to grip onto his soft hips. Fuck, there’s a lot to grip onto. And why is that all he can focus on? Why on earth is _that_ making him groan into Theo’s kiss?

‘This. Off,’ he insists, pushing the bottom of Theo’s shirt up and almost gasping as it exposes a roll of his pale, soft belly, as if the sight is something forbidden, something he shouldn’t have seen. 

‘Bossy,’ Theo tells him, but he’s already undoing his shirt buttons with surprisingly nimble fingers, and Draco’s pulling apart the sides of his shirt and slipping it off his shoulders.

He loses some of his nerve at this point, though. He’s not sure how he’s supposed to touch Theo, how he’s allowed to touch him. Is it bad manners if his hands go straight to Theo’s gut, which he’s been fantasising about touching ever since Theo showed up at his door all those weeks ago? All the people Draco’s ever slept with – all the guys, at least – have had a fairly similar body type to his own. Tall, slim, lightly muscled. He’s never been with someone who looks like Theo. And suddenly Draco’s bursting with questions it had never occurred to him to ask.

So he falters, and his hands end up in Theo’s hair, which seems safer, if less rewarding. He wants this, wants Theo, more than he’s wanted anyone in a long time. Wants to explore every inch of Theo’s body – and god, there’s plenty to explore. So why can’t he stop fixating on his own arm, on the bloody t-shirt he’s wearing, on Theo’s hands straying again to the hem of his jumper…

‘Draco.’ Theo’s a little breathless, his voice low – and there’s something in there, Draco realises. A twinge of insecurity. ‘Is everything all right?’

He blurts out, ‘I’m leaving it on.’ 

Theo stares at him. Draco holds his gaze, daring him to glance at his arm. 

‘Hardly seems fair,’ Theo says, gaze careful and steady. ‘Making the fat guy be the only one who’s naked.’

‘You’re not fat,’ Draco says automatically, and feels his cheeks heating.

‘Well. I _am.’_

It was, perhaps, a rather foolish thing to say when there’s a substantial amount of evidence to the contrary standing before him, Theo shirtless and shameless in his living room.

‘All right,’ Draco concedes. ‘A little. Perhaps.’

‘Anyway,’ Theo speaks over him, ‘don’t change the subject.’

He’s still holding Draco’s gaze, and maybe this is worse. Maybe it would be better if he looked down at Draco’s left forearm and said plainly, _Don’t worry, Draco, I’ll pretend I’m not thinking about your Mark._

But Draco’s going to snap either way. He can feel it, the panic brewing up inside him, threatening to spill over.

Theo says, ‘I bet you look great under there. Seems like a shame to hide it.’

‘Well, that’s how it is,’ he snaps.

‘Okay,’ Theo says carefully, and Draco hates that, hates knowing that Theo is trying to _manage_ him. ‘I want you to be comfortable. You don’t have to do anything you’re not okay with.’

‘I _know_ I don’t.’ 

‘Okay,’ Theo says again. He looks at Draco for a moment, then reaches for his ugly shirt and pulls it back on, buttoning it quickly. He crosses his arms over his chest. For a moment, Draco is so distracted by the way they rest on the curve of his gut that he manages to ignore the clear message Theo is trying to send him.

‘You’re right,’ Draco finds himself saying. ‘Of course. This was a mistake. Completely fucking pointless.’

And he storms into his bedroom and slams the door like a child.

*

He locks the door. Strips off his jumper and shirt in one fluid motion. Stands in front of his mirror and meets the eye of what’s staring back at him, to remind himself why he can’t do this in front of Theo.

He’s spent a lot of money trying to make his arm something he’s not ashamed to look at. The blue roses winding around his forearm don’t hide the scar where his Mark used to be, not even close. But it gives him the confidence to roll his sleeves up when he’s working or wear a short-sleeved shirt on warmer days. People see the tattoos first and the scar second. Mostly, they’re too polite to mention the latter. 

It’s not as though Draco had planned to react like this. He’s never tried to hide his scar from a partner before, not specifically. But since Hogwarts, he hasn’t slept with anyone the Dark Mark would really mean anything to. 

After Hogwarts – after his father’s imprisonment, after his own pardon, after his mother’s pleas for him to stay with her at the Manor – he’d booked a one-way ticket to Montreal. Because he’d been there once as a child and remembered liking it; because his French was passable; because the Dark Lord’s uprising and Potter’s triumph was just something that happened half a world away in someone else’s newspapers. 

After Montreal, when he finally thought he was ready to stop hiding, he’d come home only to find that everything still scared him too much. That he couldn’t go anywhere without feeling like people knew who he was and wanted to punish him for what he’d done. Since then, he hasn’t been this undressed with anyone who wasn’t a Muggle. Barely spoken to anyone who wasn’t a Muggle, apart from his mother. And now, Theodore Nott.

Perhaps, if he walked back out like this, everything on display, vulnerabilities out in the open for Theo to see, then it wouldn’t be so bad. They could still recover the evening, and all of this wouldn’t have to be a complete and utter disaster. Theo might tell him that it doesn’t matter, and that the past is the past, and Draco would know that all of it was a lie.

*

It’s an embarrassing amount of time before he decides he’s ready to emerge (his hair carefully flattened down, shirt and jumper firmly back on). He can hear Mara’s whines and snuffles, Theo’s feet padding around on the wooden floors, the old couch creaking slightly as he sits down.

So even though he knows perfectly well that Theo has been there the whole time, he makes a point of saying, ‘Made yourself at home, I see.’ It comes out with far more venom than it needs to, because apparently his first defence is to snap at people who are just trying to do him a favour.

Theo gives a nod of acknowledgement. ‘Mara’s making me feel very welcome. I’m on tap water, though.’ He indicates the mug on the table. ‘Was going to make tea, but I couldn’t work out how to use anything in your kitchen.’

‘Anyone with any decency would have left.’

‘Good job I’m a pain in the arse, then.’

Draco stares at him for a moment, then stalks into the kitchen. ‘Merlot?’ he says, somewhat peevishly, and Theo shrugs. Draco tries to ignore how much his hands are shaking, but charms the wine to pour itself all the same. The two glasses float across the room and settle themselves on the table in front of Theo. Draco follows in their wake, sitting primly on the couch, while Theo’s still sprawled out, looking perfectly at ease. 

Draco carefully assesses the state of his hand, deems it steady enough to take hold of the glass, and takes a bigger gulp of wine than he needs to. Not exactly elegant. He imagines how appalled his mother would be.

He says, ‘You haven’t had any dinner.’

‘True.’ Theo’s wearing a kind smile that Draco’s determined to ignore, staring ahead at the wall rather than at him. ‘You lured me here on the pretence of a free meal, Draco. I’m feeling conned.’

He’d been going to cook. It seems like a long time ago that he’d decided on that, and now it all seems so absurd. He takes another sip of merlot and doesn’t say anything, but Theo doesn’t try and force him to. 

They sit for a moment in a gentle silence, until Draco says, ‘Well, I’m not doing all the work.’ He stands back up, takes his glass with him to the kitchen, starts rifling through cupboards for the ingredients he’d bought. ‘You can make yourself useful.’

Theo follows Draco into the kitchen, brows furrowed, looking comically mutinous. ‘Fair warning, I’m not much good. Cooking’s never really been my thing.’

_Just eating, then?_ Draco wants to say, and almost bites the inside of his cheek in his effort to stop himself. He pushes a chopping board and some garlic, mushrooms and tomatoes in Theo’s direction. 

There isn’t that much to do. The pasta dough is already prepared and chilled and waiting to be teased through the machine into thick ribbons of pappardelle. It’s easy enough to whip up a basil pesto. And if Theo’s bemused by the number of Muggle contraptions involved in the making of the meal, he doesn’t comment on it. 

*

‘I can’t believe you made pasta for me.’ Theo shifts on the couch, tugging unsubtly at the waistband of his jeans, because apparently he is trying to kill Draco. ‘You really pull out all the stops on a first date.’

‘It wasn’t _for you,’_ Draco says, which is very much a lie. ‘I just don’t see the need for dried pasta. I happen to have standards.’

‘So you keep saying.’ 

‘And you think this is a _date?’_

Theo smirks. ‘I think it might be.’

It wouldn’t be accurate to say that they’re cuddling. Theo’s arm is thrown over the back of the couch, not technically around Draco’s shoulders but certainly within easy reach, as if they’re third years nervously sharing a sofa in the common room. Draco’s thigh is resting against Theo’s, but he keeps telling himself that’s just because the couch isn’t terribly big, and Theo’s thighs are, well, definitely on the wider side. 

His waistline looks wider, too, when he’s sitting down like this, his stomach brushing the top of his thighs. The lower buttons of his shirt seem to be straining a little, in a way they hadn’t been before. Whether that’s a result of the new angle, or of the heavy dinner, Draco’s not sure. 

Faux-casual, he asks, ‘So, what are you doing with the rest of your evening?’ 

‘It’s nine-thirty, Draco.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, is it past your bedtime?’

‘I just don’t see any reason to leave the house after ten. Particularly not on a night this cold. Besides –’ he’s tugging at the waistband of his jeans again, and then he actually rests a hand on top of his belly, looking a little rueful, and dear lord, who would’ve thought he’d be such a fucking _tease_ – ‘I just ate an indecent amount of pasta. I’m not sure I’ll be getting up off this couch.’

It had been a lot, and Draco had absolutely noticed. He’d managed to have seconds and thirds, alongside generous helpings of bread and salad and the rich chocolate cake Draco had made for dessert. Draco had just about restrained himself from offering Theo his leftovers, which had somehow – god knows why – seemed like a step too far. 

He continues, ‘You might have to let me pass out on the couch and sleep here. I won’t be any trouble, honest.’

If this is a date, there’s nothing weird about Theo staying over. If it’s a date then, maybe, there’s nothing weird about Draco reaching out and resting a hand on Theo’s stomach, feeling how full he is, giving it a gentle rub, having to bring in a second hand because really there’s too much there for just one –

But if it’s a date then it’s pretty fucking weird that Draco won’t take his jumper off even though Theo knows exactly what he’s trying to hide. So it’s not a date, and Draco keeps his hands to himself.

Theo says, ‘What are _you_ planning to do with your evening, Draco?’

He shrugs. ‘An early night, perhaps. Do the washing up, have a shower, turn in.’ 

Theo sighs, shifting his position on the couch so they’re properly facing each other. ‘Draco, either you’re asking me to fuck off, or you’re asking me to stay over, and it would be helpful if I knew which one it was.’

‘You might as well stay.’ He smirks a little, but keeps it the right side of teasing. ‘Seeing as you’re in no condition to make it home.’

An hour or so later – once Draco has cleaned up the mess from dinner, ignoring Theo’s offers of help, and Theo has managed to prise himself up off the couch – Draco walks into his bedroom wearing boxers and a safely long-sleeved shirt to find Theo waiting for him in his bed. This is both exactly how Draco had hoped this evening might go, and not at all how he had expected things to turn out.

Getting into bed next to Theo feels unexpectedly awkward. Theo’s also in his boxers and a t-shirt that’s stretched tight over the crest of his stomach and over his soft chest, and Draco tries not to stare.

But nothing’s going to happen. They’ve left as much space as possible between them in the bed, Theo’s girth notwithstanding. It’s not going to be that sort of night. Draco has certainly seen to that. Theo’s concerned about him now, thinks he’s troubled and fickle and _delicate,_ and Draco’s pretty sure none of that is exactly a turn on. 

So he lies down and turns off the lights and mutters ‘Goodnight’ into his pillow.

But Theo shifts towards him slightly, throws an arm across his middle, pulls Draco against him. He can feel Theo’s belly, full of pasta and bread and cake and wine, pressing into his back. Somehow that alone is enough to make him shiver. 

‘Tonight’s been nice,’ Theo says quietly. 

Draco gives a muffled grunt that might qualify as agreement.

‘I’m glad you asked me up here.’

‘I might kick you out yet,’ Draco tells him. ‘There’s still time.’

Theo chuckles. He’s close enough that his breath tickles the back of Draco’s neck, and he’s warm and soft and there’s so _much_ of him, and his embrace makes Draco feel so bloody _safe._

‘Such a little shit, Draco.’


	3. Chapter 3

‘We could go out for dinner,’ Theo suggests. This is a perfectly normal, casual thing to say to someone you might-be-sort-of-dating, and there’s no reason why it should cause Draco’s brain to stop functioning properly.

‘We could,’ he says, noncommittal. ‘Did you have somewhere in mind?’

Theo shrugs. He’s got his hands in his pockets, suitably wrapped up against the chill of the autumn day. He’s wearing another questionable scarf, this one blue-and-orange striped. Draco wonders whether he has some elderly aunt who knits them for him. He rather _hopes_ he’s wearing them out of a sense of duty rather than style. 

The scarf is, at least, a distraction from the jumper Theo’s wearing underneath, which is noticeably too tight. Draco can make out the shadow of his belly button underneath the strained fabric. It makes him look heavier than he is, probably. It’s also a garment that Draco highly approves of. 

Mara bounds back towards them, ears flopping around her, a red ball clutched in her mouth. She drops the ball at Draco’s feet, looking up expectantly. He throws it out over the grass again and she sprints after it as though its capture is the only thing that matters in all the world.

‘There’s a new place in Diagon Alley,’ Theo says, far too casually. ‘Greg was there last week. Apparently they water down their firewhisky, but he said the food was good. Excellent steak and ale pie.’

Draco doesn’t answer. He considers sniping that praise from _Goyle_ doesn’t seem like much of a recommendation. He watches Mara searching for the red ball in a pile of fallen leaves, hears her yelping as they crunch beneath her paw. 

Draco hasn’t been to Diagon Alley in years, or to Knockturn or Hogsmeade, or any of those places that had been his whole world growing up. In many ways, the world is much bigger than he’d ever imagined, now that he’s willing to explore the Muggle parts of any city he goes to rather than just the wizarding quarters.

So far, he and Theo haven’t been anywhere together apart from Rusty’s and Draco’s flat and, now, the park around the corner from where he lives. He hasn’t even been over to Theo’s, because he shares a house with Daphne in some wizarding enclave of Manchester, and that’s a whole uncomfortable interaction that Draco definitely doesn’t want to face up to.

When Theo had first mentioned his place in Manchester, Draco had wondered what happened to the house Theo had grown up in, the one Draco had visited countless times as a child and in the school holidays, where his parents and old Mr Nott had drunk expensive wines as the sun went down while Draco and Theo caused all kinds of unsupervised havoc. It was old and stately and steeped in history, not quite as ancient or grand as Malfoy Manor, but surely larger than whatever little place Theo and Daphne are inhabiting these days. 

Theo’s father is in Azkaban, Draco knows, just like his own. Just like Goyle’s, for that matter. Perhaps he doesn’t want to live in that house alone. Draco thinks of his mother, and the Manor, and the sense of discomfort he can’t shake off whenever he steps inside, and he supposes he’s not one to talk. 

‘I think you have plenty to learn about Muggle culture,’ is Draco’s eventual reply. ‘We could go to a Muggle restaurant. I’ll show you how it’s done, make sure you don’t embarrass yourself too horribly. Or break the Statute of Secrecy.’

He half-expects Theo to show his disappointment, or to mock him, to call him out on how weak and pathetic and cowardly he’s being. 

But Theo slips an arm round his shoulders and presses a kiss to his cheek and says, ‘Yeah, Draco, let’s do that.’ 

Mara skids back over to them, her snout and paws distinctly grubbier than when she had left. Theo crouches down to fuss over her, tell her what a silly dog she’s being, and the tension in Draco’s chest starts to ease, just a little.

* 

Draco doesn’t dine out often. He goes to his mother’s for dinner, on occasion, and her house elf whips up something inedible. He patronises local Muggle cafes and bakeries every now and then, because technically he is a business owner in the catering industry and he should really have some knowledge of the market. But he’s hardly an expert.

‘I’m not fussy,’ Theo says unhelpfully when Draco asks for suggestions. ‘I like pretty much all foods.’

_You look like you do,_ Draco thinks, and he quashes the thought with a squirm of embarrassment. 

A few days later, in the sushi restaurant Draco picked out, Theo looks thoroughly bemused and wildly out of his depth. 

‘What do you mean it’s raw?’ he asks, looking at Draco with wounded eyes, scanning the menu in confusion. 

Draco orders for them both, getting plenty of veggie options in case the fish proves too alarming a concept for Theo, but ordering plenty of sashimi for himself. As the food arrives, Draco attempts to coach him through it.

‘Try this, it’s mostly just rice and crab.’ 

‘Am I supposed to use chopsticks? I definitely can’t use chopsticks.’

‘No, don’t worry about that. Have some of this, it’s just fried tofu.’

‘Tofu? Is that a vegetable?’

The only thing Theo seems certain about is the beer he’s drinking, and which he orders repeatedly. But he gamely tries everything Draco sets before him, and seems impressed by Draco’s limited sushi knowledge, and deeply impressed when Draco pays for the meal with a Muggle debit card as though it’s nothing.

Afterwards, they meander through the streets in the direction of Draco’s flat. It’s drizzling a little, not enough that they’re properly getting wet, but enough that the water shines off the streetlamps and everything looks a little hazy. The sign for Draco’s shop, spelling out _Rusty’s_ in a curling script that Draco’s never been entirely sure he likes, glows ahead of them in the evening light.

At the door, Draco takes out his keys and raises an eyebrow at Theo. ‘Fancy a drink?’

It’s not really a question. He’d assumed this was the course the evening was going to take. He’s already opening the door and stepping inside. So it’s a bit of a kick in the teeth when Theo looks hesitant. 

‘Yeah, Draco. If you’re sure.’

Draco bristles. ‘I just invited you up, didn’t I?’

‘You did.’

Draco stares at him. He thought this was what Theo wanted. Fuck, he knows it’s what _he_ wants, and it’s rather mortifying that his feelings might not be reciprocated. 

If this is about last time, then that’s just brilliant. They haven’t talked about it since that night, and Draco has chosen to assume that means everything is fine and it isn’t something they need to discuss. 

‘A drink would be great,’ Theo’s saying. ‘I just wanted to make sure it’s what you –’

‘Me? I’m fine, Theo. I know what I want. Is this what _you_ want?’

‘Of course it is,’ he says, and his voice is low and soothing, his hands firm and reassuring on Draco’s shoulders. Draco suspects he’s being managed again, but he’s willing to overlook that for now. 

‘Well,’ he says. ‘All right then. Good.’

Theo kisses him, and this time he’s the one who insists they go upstairs. He lets Draco take the lead on everything else; lets Draco push him against the closed door before they’re even inside the flat; lets Draco drag him to the bedroom, straddle him, leave him fully clothed while Draco starts to strip. 

Draco has thought this through. He’s going to make up for last time, make both of them forget what a mess it was. Show both of them that he’s fine, really, that there’s not a damn thing wrong with him. 

His shirt’s off before he has time to think about any of it. Theo’s hands are on him, everywhere, and he’s muttering _‘Fuck,_ Draco’.

He glances down at his own arm. It’s odd seeing pale skin there. He’s grown used to the splash of blue and black from his tattoo. He closes his eyes for a moment, tries to focus on the feel of Theo beneath him, Theo’s lips on his, Theo’s hands pulling him even closer.

But then he opens his eyes and Theo’s dart to meet his, and suddenly he’s snapping, ‘What?’ 

Theo looks up at him, pupils blown. ‘Sorry?’

‘You’re staring.’

‘What? Yeah, Draco, you’re bloody gorgeous,’ Theo says, and Draco can’t believe he’s trying to dodge away from this. ‘Of course I’m looking at you.’

‘There’s nothing there,’ Draco snaps, ‘so don’t fucking _stare_ at it.’ And he scrambles off Theo, off the bed.

‘Draco,’ Theo says quietly.

_‘Don’t.’_

Draco presses his hands to his face and this is so humiliating and his chest feels so fucking tight and he just wants to _breathe_ –

Theo just sits on the bed while Draco tries to calm himself down. After a while, he comes over, sits next to him, wraps an arm around Draco’s waist, and Draco rests his head on his shoulder and lets out a shaky breath.

‘It’s a charm.’ Draco rubs at his forearm as though he might brush the magic away. ‘Only temporary.’

‘Okay.’ Theo’s fingers are rubbing circles on his hip.

_I know it’s pointless. Ridiculous. Pathetic. I didn’t know I’d feel this way. I never have before, with anyone. But with you, it’s all I can think about._

‘You know it’s okay, don’t you?’ Theo’s tone is painfully kind. ‘If you want to keep your shirt on, if you want to cover yourself up with charms, that’s fine. I don’t care about that. You should do whatever makes you comfortable. If you want to try this again, or you want to get dressed and go to sleep, or you want me to go home, all of that is fine.’

‘I don’t want you to go home.’

Theo smiles. ‘All right then.’

_You really don’t care?_ Draco wants to ask, but he doesn’t, because he refuses to be that pathetic.

‘Right, I’m going to say this, whether you want me to or not,’ Theo says carefully. ‘Draco, I don’t give a shit about your Mark. I know you had one. I know how they look now. And I don’t care. But I wish you’d talk to me about it. Or talk to someone.’

Draco doesn’t answer. This sort of thing is so hard to think about. He’s spent five years pointedly not thinking about it. 

He finds himself a long-sleeved shirt to wear to bed, and Theo strips down to a t-shirt and boxers, and he fusses over Draco in a way that Draco pretends not to like. They kiss a bit more – very sweet, very bloody chaste – and Draco falls asleep with Theo’s arm wrapped around him, holding him close.

But none of this changes the fact that Draco fucked this up _again,_ that for the second time he’s panicked and thrown a fit and Theo’s been so bloody understanding about it. 

Theo thinks he’s a mess. Theo thinks he’s not coping. And maybe he’s not. But before Theo barged his way into his life, at least he’d been less aware of it. At least he’d been marginally happier in the familiar throws of self-denial.

*

The other side of the bed is empty when Draco wakes up the next morning. He stares at the rumpled sheets for a moment, feeling uncomfortably warm, something like disappointment hitting him right behind the eyes. 

Then he hears a voice through the wall. Theo chatting to Mara. 

He scrambles out of bed, flattens down his hair in the mirror and, at the last minute, pulls on a jumper and a pair of shorts, because apparently around Theo he’s self-conscious about his body in a way he never has been, ever, with anyone before. Which is just great and not at all getting in the way of his sex life.

Theo’s standing in the kitchen, telling Mara very sternly that he will _not_ give her any breakfast, that she’ll have to wait until Draco’s up, that he’ll get in trouble if he feeds her when he’s not supposed to and she wouldn’t want that to happen, would she? 

He’s pulled on some jeans, but still wearing the t-shirt he slept in. The shirt is a little on the small side, and Draco is treated to a peek of soft, pale tummy where it’s rucked up. Theo looks up when he notices Draco, pulling his shirt down with one hand. _You don’t have to do that,_ Draco considers saying, but he bites the words back.

Theo holds up a mug of what appears to be tea, in a manner that suggests it is his life’s greatest accomplishment.

‘I worked the kettle,’ he says happily. ‘Didn’t make you anything. Sorry. Thought you’d be asleep a while longer. You looked pretty out of it.’

Draco wanders over, threads his arms around Theo from behind. Like this, his hands almost rest on the curve of Theo’s gut. But it’s not too much, he thinks, not like he’s touching his belly intentionally, which somehow feels too intimate, too personal. He isn’t sure whether that’s a weird thing to do, whether it’s something Theo would welcome.

‘Breakfast?’ he offers. It’s Sunday, Rusty’s isn’t open, and he rather likes the idea of spending a lazy day here with Theo, venturing out later to walk Mara and perhaps to grab a spot of lunch.

Theo visibly hesitates, and Draco unwraps his arms from around him and opens his mouth to deflect with something about how it doesn’t matter, he was only offering to be polite, that really Theo’s overstayed his welcome and should be getting out of his hair now.

But Theo says, ‘That would be great,’ and leans in for a kiss.

‘You – is that chocolate?’ Draco asks, surprised and amused by the taste of it. ‘Seems like you’ve broken your fast already, Nott.’

Theo grins. ‘You left cake lying around. I ate some of the cake. This shouldn’t be a surprise.’ 

There are various responses Draco would like to give to this. _No, I’m not the least bit surprised. You just can’t help yourself, can you? You’ve gained more weight, you know, since I first saw you. Is it all the cakes and treats I keep giving you? Or do you stuff yourself silly when I’m not around, too?_

But he doesn’t say a thing, because every single one of those thoughts seems wildly inappropriate and not the sort of thing he should say to another human being, particularly not one he happens to be rather fond of.

Bloody hell. He’s _fond_ of Theo. Merlin’s sodding beard.

Theo’s voice cuts through his musings. ‘I still won’t say no if you’re making me breakfast, though.’

Draco raises both eyebrows. ‘You only come here for my food, don’t you?’

‘And to pet your dog,’ Theo says seriously. 

He gives Draco a soft look as he summons a pan, cracks some eggs and lays out rashers of bacon. Then he says, ‘I shouldn’t stay here too long, though. I’ve got work to do today. Shouldn’t put it off.’

‘Oh?’ Draco turns the bacon in the pan, starts buttering a few slices of bread.

‘I’m clearing out my father’s house,’ Theo says, perfectly calm. ‘I found a buyer about a month ago. The paperwork was finalised last week. There’s not much more to do, just a few rooms.’

Draco stares at him. Theo has _sold_ the house? It seems unlikely his father would have agreed to such a thing or instructed Theo to sell it on his behalf. So does that mean…?

Unsure what to say, he focuses instead on the bacon, spitting and hissing slightly. ‘Would you like a hand?’ 

Theo lets his jaw drop, his eyes widen, in a parody of astonishment. ‘Are you offering to be helpful, Draco?’

‘I can be nice,’ he says, rather imperiously. ‘On occasion.’ 

Theo smirks and wraps his arms around him, nuzzling into his neck, and Draco can feel the soft bristle of his beard and the soft push of his stomach between them, and all of it feels like today will be a good day.

*

The alarming thing about stepping inside Theo’s father’s house is how little has changed since Draco was last here a decade ago.

‘I thought you had cleared most of the rooms,’ he says, looking pointedly at the mirrors and portraits on the walls, the cluttered side tables and uncomfortable chaise longue, the old mahogany cabinets standing proud, the crammed bookcases stretching floor to ceiling.

Theo shrugs. ‘They bought most of the furniture too. They’re welcome to it. Saves me getting rid of it.’

They start in a drawing room on the ground floor. If Draco isn’t here to move furniture, he’s not sure how he can actually be of help. Theo spends most of his time sorting through drawers and cupboards and removing personal items. He sorts them into boxes of things he wants to keep and things he wants to throw away. Draco, unsure of Theo’s criteria, pours most of what he finds into the _keep_ box for Theo to sort out later if he wishes.

After the drawing room, Theo leads him up a couple of flights of stairs to tend to one of the bedrooms. Draco pauses before one of the doors. ‘This was yours.’

‘Yeah. Draco –’

But Draco’s already pushing open the door and stepping inside. Like the others, this room has all the furniture just as he remembers it. But it has everything else, too. Theo hasn’t cleared this room out yet. There are old schoolbooks on the shelves, bits of parchment piled up on the desk, a green-and-silver scarf hanging over the back of a chair. 

He glances at Theo, silently seeking permission, and Theo gives a nod. He steps further into the room and snoops shamelessly at everything there is to see – picks the old potions textbooks off the shelves and remembers those lessons with Snape and Slughorn, sniggering with Theo at the back of the dungeon – opens the wardrobe and sees Hogwarts robes, dress robes, jumpers and shirts and trousers that certainly wouldn’t accommodate Theo’s width these days. 

He wonders briefly, as he sometimes does, when these clothes would have stopped fitting Theo. He’d still been skinny their final year at Hogwarts, as far as Draco can recall. There might be a specific _when_ and a _why,_ but there might not be, too. Things happen. Theo got heavy. Draco learned to bake. Sometimes life happens without you noticing and suddenly it’s five years later and here you are. 

Theo sits down on the bed to sort through one of the bedside tables; it squeaks slightly, and he grins wolfishly up at Draco. ‘We had some pretty awful sex in here, back in the day.’

They’d preferred to meet at Theo’s house, whenever possible. Draco’s house was bigger, with more places to hide, but Draco’s parents were more watchful. Old Mr Nott was more likely to tell Draco how much he looked like his father, give his best to Lucius and Narcissa, and lock himself in his study for the rest of the day, giving the boys the run of the place.

Draco arches an eyebrow. ‘You didn’t think so at the time.’

‘Well, of course not. I was too busy struggling to believe that Draco sodding Malfoy had so much as _looked_ at me, let alone was _in my bed_ and _very fucking naked.’_ He adds cheerily, ‘I’m still thinking that these days, to be honest.’ Draco feels his face heating.

In the desk, Draco finds a collection of photographs, scattered loose across the bottom of one of the drawers. Because he apparently has no sense of personal boundaries, he scoops them into a pile and begins flicking through them.

There’s a photo of a small, dark-haired child and a woman who must be Theo’s mother. Some of a young Theo and his wiry, grim-faced, imposing father. One of an older, slightly chubbier Theo, taken some time in the five years Draco wasn’t speaking to him, presumably. He’s slimmer than the present-day Theo on the bed, jumper clinging gently to the love handles poking out over his jeans, but bigger than the lanky boy Draco had known at school. In this photo, Theo’s laughing with a pretty girl that Draco doesn’t recognise – but in the background, he can see Millicent Bulstrode, sipping her drink and not looking at the camera. 

There are more photos, but Draco realises that the more he goes on, the greater the risk of stumbling across something he doesn’t want to see. He shoves them back in the drawer for Theo to deal with later. But Theo is already behind him, keen to see what’s captured Draco’s attention, picking up the photos and crowing with laughter as he flicks through them.

‘Shit, I really shouldn’t’ve brought you here. I’m sure you’ve had a great laugh at my expense. Not sure why I thought that haircut was ever a good idea. God, look at Pansy’s hair in this one – this would’ve been third year, maybe? A bad year for both of us. Bloody hell, was I really that skinny at school? I look like one gust of wind would take me out.’ 

He thrusts various photographs in Draco’s direction, gesturing to various points of hilarity, and Draco feels a little flustered. He takes them and makes vague noises of agreement.

‘Not exactly an issue these days.’ Theo gives his undeniably ample stomach a pat, and it wobbles a little, and Draco feels like all the air has been sucked from his lungs.

He clears his throat. ‘Um. I suppose not.’

‘You, on the other hand, are actually not as skinny as I remember you being,’ Theo continues, squinting at yet another photo, this one containing a teenage Draco with slicked-back hair standing somewhere in the Hogwarts grounds. ‘I mean, you’ve definitely filled out a bit since then –’ he gives Draco’s chest and shoulders an appreciative look ‘– but I always remember you being pretty tiny at school.’ 

‘Why, thank you,’ Draco says dryly.

‘Maybe that’s because you spent so much time with Crabbe and Goyle,’ Theo muses. ‘That would’ve thrown off anyone’s perspective.’

Draco winces at the sound of the name. 

Theo seems unabashed. Perhaps they talk about Crabbe all the time, Theo and Greg, Pansy and Daphne, Blaise and Millicent. Perhaps they send sad little letters to each other on the anniversary of his death, or meet up for dinner and raise a toast to their fallen friend. Perhaps they remember all the twisted shit he did towards the end under the Carrows, his puffed-up confidence in his own abilities, his savage, pointless, utterly avoidable death.

Draco remembers the Room of Requirement. The fire. Crabbe howling like an animal. The certainty of his own death and Potter and his fucking hero complex swooping in to save him. 

He wishes Theo had kept his mouth shut. Wishes he had the decency to pretend the dead had never existed.

He gets up and goes to look in another drawer, because if one of those photographs in Theo’s hands shows him Crabbe’s face, he thinks he’ll rip the thing in two.

*

Even with two people, and even once Draco stops being distracted by everything in Theo’s childhood bedroom, clearing the house proves to be slow work. They break for lunch, Theo visiting a bakery in the closest wizarding village and apparating back with sausage rolls, vegetable quiches and miniature Bakewell tarts. Draco picks at his broccoli and feta quiche while Theo wolfs down the rest. 

He should ask. Now is the right time, while they’re taking a break. No, he doesn’t need to ask – he should just assume it as fact and offer his condolences. Theo must assume he already knows and thinks he’s either being heartless or too awkward to bring it up. But it’s not his fault he didn’t know until now. And there’s nothing to be gained by putting it off.

‘So,’ he tries, and Theo looks up from his sausage roll, brushing a flake of buttery pastry from his beard, ‘you’re selling the house.’

‘Yeah. Don’t have much use for it. It’s too big for one person.’

Draco nods vaguely and eats a cube of feta from the quiche. He should say it. Stop dancing around the subject. 

Lucius may be in Azkaban, and will be there for the rest of his life, but Malfoy Manor is still _his,_ not Narcissa’s, not Draco’s. The old magic on the place doesn’t work that way. When Lucius dies, it will pass into Draco’s hands, whether he wants it or not. He has no doubt it's the same with this place. The Notts might not be quite as old a family as the Malfoys, but they're old enough.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says hesitantly, and the look in Theo’s eye confirms his suspicions. ‘About your father.’

‘Thanks,’ Theo grunts, but something has closed off in his expression. He starts picking at the crust of one of the quiches, not eating it. 

‘I didn’t know. Not until today.’

Theo looks surprised at this, for a moment, but his expression closes off again. Then he says, ‘When you stop speaking to everyone for five years, you miss all the big news, I suppose.’ 

Draco baulks. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says again, though it doesn’t sound much like an apology, his tone a little sharper than he intends. ‘I didn’t mean to –’

‘I know. It’s fine.’

‘If you ever want to talk about –’

Theo lets out a laugh, an ugly, bitter thing that takes Draco by surprise. ‘No, I don’t. It was six months ago. I’ve had other people to talk to, all right? And we don’t talk about anything, do we, Draco? So we’re not going to start now, not with this.’

The words feel like a punch to the jaw. And he should let it go. He shouldn’t argue with a guy about his dead father while standing in his childhood home. But Draco snaps, ‘Don’t worry, I won’t offer again.’ 

‘Do you visit your father in Azkaban?’ Theo asks him suddenly. ‘Have you ever been to visit him?’

He doesn’t. He hasn’t. From his tone, it’s clear that Theo knows that.

Draco gets to his feet. ‘Perhaps I’ll go home. That might be best.’

‘Yeah, it might be.’

He hadn’t expected Theo to say that. He’d expected an apology, Theo asking him to stay, Theo’s hands holding him still and reminding him that everything is all right. Later, he’ll realise how accustomed he is to Theo humouring him, and how much it rattles him to be denied that. 

‘Fine,’ he says, stalking over to the nearest fireplace, hoping there’s floo powder.

But Theo stands up too, and Draco turns to face him, and he’s met with, ‘See, Draco, this is why all of this _matters._ Why it’s so fucking frustrating when you pretend that it doesn’t.’

Draco opens his mouth, feeling attacked and confused, but Theo speaks over him. ‘If you’d been around for the past five years, we could’ve helped each other. It would’ve been good for both of us. You need someone who _gets_ it. I don’t know what I would’ve done if I hadn’t had Greg to talk to.’

‘You’ve been having heart-to-hearts with _Goyle?’_ Draco sneers. 

‘I don’t know many other people whose fathers are going to die in Azkaban,’ Theo says, which shuts Draco right up. ‘It’s a pretty exclusive club. So yeah, I’ve been talking to Greg. Don’t you think I would rather have talked to you?’

‘I’m not responsible for you.’ Even in his own head, the words sound cruel. ‘I don’t owe you anything.’

‘It’s not about _owing_ me. Fuck, Draco. It’s about – about being _part_ of this. About us sticking together when we need each other. All of us.’

‘I don’t need you,’ Draco says. ‘Not you, not any of the others. I know you’ve convinced yourself that I do, Theo, that I’ve spent the last five years pining over you. Trust me, I haven’t.’

‘Right.’ Theo throws up his hands, shakes his head, and when he looks Draco in the eye again, he’s wearing almost a sneer. ‘You don’t need anyone. You’re desperate to be alone, except that you can’t stand it, not really, so you try and fill your life with the _general public,_ for crying out loud, because selling them tea and cake and watching them live their lives every day is still better than admitting you’re not living one yourself.’

‘You know everything about me, don’t you?’ Draco snaps. ‘You don’t know a damned thing. You think we’re the same? We’re not, Theo. Nothing about this makes us the same.’ 

It’s different, and it will always be different, because Theo doesn’t have the scar on his arm where the Mark used to be. The scar that itches, sometimes, that seems to blaze bright as a beacon no matter how many layers of clothing he wears, no matter how much ink he pays for to try and disguise it. The scar that he’s terrified will regress one day into the skull and snake it used to be; that he’ll see it writhing, feel it burn; that he’ll sense its call and know that the Dark Lord has him again. 

‘I’m not a project for you to distract yourself with.’ Draco feels his hand shaking, balling it into a fist. ‘You’re worried about me? Focus on your own shit, Theo. You clearly have plenty of it.’

‘Go home, Draco,’ Theo says, and he sounds so, so tired. Draco snarls his address into the fireplace, and steps into the green flames.


	4. Chapter 4

_I didn’t mean any of that._

_I wish you’d never come to find me._

_You don’t know what you’re talking about._

_I’m a piece of shit._

_This was never going to work and it’s easier for us both if we admit that now._

Draco starts a lot of letters he doesn’t finish and doesn’t send.

He gets one from Theo. 

_I shouldn’t have said that about your father. That was out of order._

When he doesn’t reply, he gets another.

_We argue once and you never speak to me again? Is that how it is?_

*

He opens Rusty’s at ten in the morning, Monday to Saturday, and closes at five-thirty. He reads his Muggle paperbacks. He makes too much cake that doesn’t sell. He doesn’t bother baking cakes at all. He walks Mara. He lets his mother’s letters pile up, unread, on the windowsill. 

One morning, when he goes to switch on the coffee machine, there’s a pool of water seeping out from underneath it. After half an hour of trying to fix it with magic, he has to concede that he’s only fucked it up even more.

He leaves the sign on the door firmly at _Closed._

He brings Mara down from the flat and she scuttles around exploring all the corners, thrilled to have the run of the place without the stress of customers. He makes himself a cup of tea and rips open a Twix, dipping it in the hot drink until the chocolate and caramel melt into one and the shortbread is soft and crumbly. Mara curls up at his feet, her dark eyes wide and earnest.

He could call someone to come and fix the machine. He could order another one if his can’t be repaired. 

He could give up on this fucking place that’s honestly been nothing but trouble, that was never going to work out, that he’s been deluding himself he could make into something he’d be proud of. 

At first, it had seemed like a wonderful challenge. After a few years of living in the Muggle world – after that humiliating, humbling process of learning how to live a completely different life until things finally started to make sense, until he realised he was somehow managing to blend in – he’d had the confidence to think it might actually work. 

It was the last place anyone would have thought to look for him, the last thing anyone could imagine Draco Malfoy doing. That thought had been intoxicating. 

And it had given him focus. Purpose. He’d poured everything he had into getting it off the ground, transforming that spark of an idea in his brain into something like reality. And then, slowly, things had started to crumble until he let them fall apart completely.

It all seems so fucking laughable now.

*

He’s already knocked, and it’s a bit late for second thoughts. He could run, he supposes. Hide around the corner like a child, watch as Theo opened the door and was confused to find no one there, and then slink away back to his flat and his dog and his broken coffee machine.

But the door opens. He paints a sheepish smile on his face. 

It’s not Theo.

‘Bloody hell,’ says the woman at the door. She’s dressed in black leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, her dark hair is scraped back into a sleek ponytail, and to say she looks flabbergasted would be a serious understatement.

‘Hi, Daphne.’

‘Draco. It’s … been a while. How the hell do you have this address?’

He blinks. Theo had said he wouldn’t mention Draco to any of the others, not without his permission, but Draco hadn’t entirely believed him. ‘Long story,’ he says. ‘Er – is Theo in?’

_‘Theo?’_

‘Yes.’

She opens her mouth, then seems to notice the red-and-green tartan tin in his hands. She recoils as if there might be a human head inside.

‘I brought a cake,’ he explains awkwardly. 

‘Cake?’ She stares at him and the tin as if her brain can’t comprehend the information. ‘Did you – _make_ it?’

He supposes, from Daphne’s perspective, a human head might be more on-brand for Draco Malfoy, all things considered. ‘Yes,’ he says, almost guiltily. 

Daphne stares at him, then shakes her head and steps back into the house, gesturing him inside. ‘Theo!’ she shouts. ‘You have a _visitor.’_

Theo appears at the top of the stairs. His eyes widen when he sees Draco.

‘You could’ve mentioned that _Draco_ was coming over,’ Daphne accuses. ‘I’ve just spluttered at him in the doorway.’

‘I didn’t know he was,’ Theo says, still at the top of the stairs. Draco feels like his cheeks are on fire.

Daphne looks between the two of them. Then she says slowly, ‘I’m going for a run. I’ll leave you two to … whatever it is that’s going on here. Nice to see you, Draco.’

‘You too,’ he tells her, and she’s still shaking her head in bemusement as the front door shuts behind her.

‘Hello,’ Draco says into the silence, because fuck if he knows what else to try and say. Theo sighs and pads down the stairs to join him in the hallway.

He’s wearing a jumper that fits him surprisingly well. Almost disappointingly so. Perhaps he’s bought some new clothes. Draco finds himself missing the old ones. 

‘A heads up would’ve been nice,’ Theo says.

‘I was going to write.’

‘But you didn’t.’

‘I – no.’

‘Always so dramatic, Draco.’

Draco smiles weakly. Theo doesn’t, but offers, ‘Cup of tea?’

Draco nods vigorously and follows Theo further inside. Their house is rather charming, all plush armchairs and mismatched side tables and eclectic artwork on the walls. 

‘Daphne paints,’ Theo says, when he sees Draco looking. ‘Do you take sugar?’

‘No. Just milk. Thanks.’ He knows that Theo likes his tea strong, only a drop of milk, two sugars. He tries, ‘Weird to have you making me tea for once.’

Theo doesn’t look amused. He sits down at the kitchen table, takes a sip of his own drink.

‘I brought cake,’ Draco says, setting the tin down on the table between them. ‘Lemon and elderflower. Haven’t tried selling it before. I’ll need your verdict on it.’

Theo looks at the tin for a moment, but doesn’t open it. 

‘I should have written,’ Draco says, while Theo takes a sip of tea. 

‘Yeah, you should.’

He cradles the mug of tea in his hands, warm and comforting against his palms. ‘I’d like to apologise for what happened. What I said. It was – uncalled for.’

_It was really shitty. I made it about me when it wasn’t. I didn’t like what you were saying and I didn’t want to hear it and I tried to turn it on you and I’m sorry._

‘I didn’t mean it. Not really. It’s just easier to snap at someone than to listen, sometimes.’

_It’s so much easier not to listen. It’s easier to spend five years hiding from everyone and everything. But I can’t keep doing that. You’ve shown me that I don’t want that._

‘I’m really glad you asked my mother about me. That you came to Rusty’s and you didn’t leave even when I was a complete twat to you. You’ve been right about practically everything. You know that, I suppose. But I know it now, too.’

Briefly, he sees a flash of Theo’s crooked smile. But he doesn’t say anything, just taps his fingers on the side of his mug.

_You’ve been so bloody good to me. I’ve missed you. I know it hasn’t been that long. Just over a week. But I don’t want a week to turn into forever just because I’m a coward._

Draco clears his throat, and says, ‘I’m not good at this. Any of it. But I shouldn’t use that as an excuse not to try. I’m going to try. With everything. I’m sorry, Theo.’

Theo smiles again. Cautiously, Draco does too. 

Theo says, ‘Six out of ten for the apology. I can tell you haven’t had much practice with them. The tone was pretty good, though. Sincere. Kind of nervous. I’m a soft touch, so you get extra points for the nerves.’

Draco smiles and feels as though his face might split. 

‘I’m sorry too, for the record,’ Theo says quietly. ‘What I said about you, and your father, and Rusty's – I shouldn’t’ve said it like that.’

Draco shrugs. The difference between his harsh words and Theo’s was that Theo’s had more than a ring of truth to them. 

Theo hesitates, then reaches for the cake tin, prising off the lid and peering inside. It smells sweet and fresh. Draco’s rather pleased with it. He hopes Theo approves. 

‘We’d better make a start on this. Daphne’ll be cross when she gets back. Tell me off for not sticking to my diet.’

Draco chokes out a laugh. ‘You’re on a diet?’

‘Of course not.’ Theo cuts two generous slices and hands the smaller one to Draco. ‘But Daphne doesn’t know that.’ 

*

‘I’m not just saying this because I’m a good financial advisor who’s always looking for a new challenge. But, Draco, you are _really_ in need of a good financial advisor.’ 

Draco shifts his weight from foot to foot, feeling horribly exposed as Millicent Bulstrode rifles through every detail of his financial life and judges every inch of it. They’re sitting in his office at the back of the tea shop and, so far, he’s just about kept her exasperation under control with countless cups of coffee.

Draco had told Theo about the broken coffee machine. And about the state of Rusty’s in general. And about how the whole thing was so overwhelming that Draco couldn’t think straight about it most of the time. 

Theo had listened, and been beautifully non-judgemental, and he’d mentioned that he should talk to Millie – that she’d force him to defend every knut he’d ever spent, that she’d make him feel like shit, but she’d really help him get results. 

And now another person that Draco completely ignored for five years is doing him a favour, and he is so incredibly grateful and so incredibly ashamed.

‘There’s no magic solution to this,’ Millie tells him sternly. ‘Literally and figuratively. It’ll take hard work. It’ll take change and commitment. And maybe a little more investment up front. This isn’t an easy industry to crack. But there’s something here, and I have every faith that we can make it work.’

They arrange to have another chat in a week’s time to work some more on Draco’s business plan. She leaves him with a folder full of notes and suggestions and the address of her office so he can write if he has questions in the meantime. 

He gives her a whole cake to take home, a fluffy Victoria sponge filled with tart raspberry jam and sweet cream. ‘Damn you, Draco, I’m trying to be good,’ she complains, but accepts the cake, looking surprised and a little pleased.

*

‘These robes are practically falling apart, darling,’ Narcissa admonishes, plucking at a stray thread on his shoulder like a mother cat grooming a rebellious kitten. ‘I have an appointment at Twilfitt and Tattings on Friday. Why don’t you come with me? My treat. We’ll pick up a couple of new pairs for you. Some dress robes, too. We can’t have him leaving the house like this, can we, Theo?’

Theo looks impossibly smug. The git. ‘We certainly can’t, Mrs Malfoy,’ he agrees. 

Draco glowers at him. Inviting Narcissa to Rusty’s had seemed like a good idea at the time, a sensible compromise. The Healer that Draco has been talking to – because that’s a thing he does now, with fortnightly appointments at St Mungo’s where he tries to discuss his _feelings_ – had pointed out that he didn’t have to do everything at once. If visiting his mother was worrying him, and spending time at the Manor was worrying him, why not take those things one at a time? 

He’d thought Narcissa would be scandalised at the prospect of entering a building in a Muggle area, but she’d been surprisingly receptive – thoroughly bemused by the nature of the tea shop, of course, but seeming genuinely interested as he explained how everything worked. 

He’d also thought that having Theo there as moral support would be helpful, but all they’d done so far was gang up on him.

‘I don’t need new robes, Mother,’ he says through gritted teeth. 

‘Nonsense. It’s no trouble. Just look at how smart Theo is. You can’t be outdone by your boyfriend, dear.’ 

Draco closes his eyes briefly, praying for patience. There’s too much to unpack in that one sentence. Firstly, he does not appreciate having his fashion sense compared unfavourably to _Theo’s._ (He considers bringing up Theo’s scarf collection, see what Narcissa makes of _that.)_

Secondly, Theo is definitely not his boyfriend, which he has already made quite clear to her.

Unrepentant, Narcissa continues in this vein for much of the rest of her visit. Her determinedly positive veneer cracks for a moment when – after Theo briefly excuses himself to check on Mara upstairs – she clutches Draco’s hand and says that Lucius got his letter, and they both ignore how her voice breaks a little. Draco nods and forces a smile, and he’s glad when they hear Theo’s footsteps coming down the stairs, and Narcissa fixes her cheery manner firmly back in place. 

‘That was nice,’ Theo says, once Narcissa has apparated away, having kissed Theo on both cheeks and gratuitously stroked his hair and gushed about how they simply _must_ do this again soon.

‘You could’ve told me these robes are fraying,’ Draco grumbles. ‘They aren’t that old. I didn’t realise there was anything wrong with them.’

Theo rolls his eyes. ‘I didn’t notice. I’m pretty sure nobody except your mother would have noticed. But I’m pleased she noticed how _very smart_ I am…’

‘I don’t know why I invited you at all.’ 

‘Because I’m exceedingly charming and your mother loves me.’

There is, unfortunately, some truth to that. Narcissa clearly credits Theo with dragging Draco out of his five-year slump, and now in her eyes he can do no wrong. 

And if Draco also happens to find Theo exceedingly charming – at least, on those occasions when he isn’t being utterly infuriating – he’s going to keep those thoughts to himself. For now.

*

‘That’s not allowed! Definitely not!’ Daphne’s hand shoots towards the board on the table.

‘It _is.’_ Theo holds his arms protectively over the small piece of plastic he has placed on King’s Cross Station, shielding it.

‘I think she’s right, mate,’ Greg says. ‘The stations are different. They don’t work like the other squares.’

While Theo is distracted, Daphne snatches the hotel from the board. Theo attempts to snatch it back from her, but she dodges him easily.

‘Play nicely, children,’ Blaise drawls from the back of the room. He and Pansy had decided that playing a Muggle board game on the group’s monthly ‘try something new’ night was probably a bad idea and had chosen to sit this one out. They were, perhaps, the sensible ones.

‘Come on, Draco,’ Theo demands. ‘Tell them I’m right. You’re meant to be the Muggle expert here.’

‘That will never stop being weird,’ Pansy mutters under her breath.

Draco’s flicking through the rulebook. ‘Afraid not,’ he says, smirking at Theo as Daphne looks gleeful. ‘It says right here. You can’t build hotels on stations.’

‘How does that make sense?’ Theo protests. ‘There are hotels at stations all over the world. Why is this game ignoring real life?’

Daphne, triumphant, throws the piece of plastic back into the box. Theo glowers. Draco pats him consolingly on the back. 

Sometimes, in moments like this, it almost feels like they’re back at Hogwarts. Crowding around the fireplace in the Slytherin common room, hogging all the best armchairs, drinking alcohol that’s far too fancy for them and trying to pretend they’re all grown up. Sometimes, Draco is still astonished at how they've accepted him back practically without question, at how easily he’s fitted into the new lives they’ve all built for themselves. It feels comfortable, and easy, and he’s so bloody grateful for it. For all of them. 

‘Come on,’ Greg mutters under his breath, shaking the dice in his hands, releasing them to scatter across the table. Draco groans as Greg narrowly avoids landing on his heavily built-up Fleet Street. 

Theo’s still scowling at his hotel-free Kings Cross Station. ‘This game is terrible,’ he grumbles. ‘Are there any brownies left, Draco?’ 

Draco rolls his eyes, trying to suppress a smile. ‘I’ll grab you one.’

*

Theo still drops by Rusty’s once or twice a week. He chats to some of the other regulars, some of whom even Draco knows by name at this point. He sits at the same table by the window and reads his obviously magical books. He pets Mara behind the ears and gives her belly rubs, and takes her upstairs to Draco’s flat if they’re having a busy day and she gets overwhelmed by the noise.

As the weather gets warmer, Theo stops wearing his dreadful hats and scarves. His clingy jumpers are replaced with equally clingy shirts. The too-small jacket is eventually retired, only to be replaced by another jacket a couple of sizes up, though Draco is confident the buttons on this one wouldn’t fasten either, if Theo were to let him try. 

He shaves off his beard, and he looks younger, and it highlights how full his cheeks are, and the crease at his jaw that’s threatening to become a full-time double chin is only more obvious. Draco tells him he looks great, which he does. Though Draco isn’t disappointed when he starts to grow the beard back again, either.

So it’s been months since Theo appeared out of nowhere in Draco’s failing tea shop and made him re-think everything. It’s also been months since Draco spent more than a few minutes alone with him or did anything more than pat him on the shoulder in a bros-being-bros kind of way. 

This has been intentional. Not easy or fun – completely fucking frustrating, in fact – but intentional, and necessary.

‘I don’t think we should do this now,’ Draco had said, after their argument and his apology and the necessity of working out where they would go from here. ‘I _want_ to. But I need to work on things. With me. This isn’t news. You know this. So … this isn’t the right time.’

Theo had looked pleased, even a little proud, that Draco was finally adopting a ‘talking about my feelings won’t kill me’ kind of attitude. He’d shrugged and smiled and said easily, ‘If it’s never the right time, that’s okay. But if it does come along, then just let me know.’

Since then, admittedly, they’ve spent a lot of time together, but more often than not it’s been with other people around. Sure, Narcissa has repeatedly referred to Theo as Draco’s boyfriend ‘by accident’, and possibly likes him more than she likes Draco himself, but she is incorrigible and rarely to be taken seriously.

And maybe there’s no such thing as the right time. Maybe there won’t be a day when Draco feels like everything makes sense and his anxiety has completely gone and his life is exactly as he wants it. But there are more good days now than there have been in years. That’s important.

So when Theo shows up at Rusty’s one sunny Thursday, Draco brings him a pot of Earl Grey and a large slice of carrot cake. He leans back against the wall, arms crossed, his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, blue roses snaking across his skin of his left arm. 

‘Theodore,’ he says.

Theo looks up at him, brown curls a little windswept, his blue eyes warm and questioning.

‘You owe me dinner.’ 

Theo arches an eyebrow. ‘Is that so?’

‘It is. We went for sushi once. Do you recall? It was a huge success and you very much enjoyed the food.’

‘Oh, yes. That’s exactly how I remember it, too.’

‘You might also recall that I paid,’ Draco says loftily. 

Theo sighs. ‘You did indeed. I suppose it’s only right that I return the favour. Where would you like to go?’

Draco shrugs. ‘I’ll leave the details up to you.’

‘Me?’ Theo adopts a look of mock-astonishment. ‘Are you sure my choice will live up to your high standards? It might be safer if you pick.’

Draco knows what he’s doing by saying that, and he appreciates the gesture. But he’s thought about this. Thought about it a lot, actually. And he’s ready. At least, he’s determined to try.

He says, ‘Well, I haven't been to Diagon Alley in a while. It might be interesting to see what's changed. Go somewhere new, perhaps.’

Theo smiles, slightly crooked, in a way that lights up his whole face. Then he smirks. ‘Even the place that Greg’s always recommending? With the huge pies and the cheap drinks?’

Draco groans. ‘Don't make me regret this, Nott.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I roll my eyes at British stereotypes. Then sometimes I realise how many cups of tea I make my characters drink ... and I realise that maybe they’re not wrong.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting two chapters in the same day? Wild, I know. But I had a day off work, and it's rainy and miserable outside so I wanted to leave the house as little as possible, and here we are.
> 
> A big thank you to everyone who's read this and left comments/kudos! I hope you enjoy this last chapter.

Diagon Alley is busy, which is to be expected, but Draco finds that the hordes of shoppers make him less anxious rather than more. He’s just another wizard in a nondescript black cloak, blending into the crowd. Theo’s there at his side, flashing him a bright smile or a soft look to check on how he’s doing, resting a hand on the small of his back to guide him when he’s going the wrong way. 

In the pub – a rowdy place called The Slippery Weasel – Theo orders them food and pays with a handful of galleons and sickles. The pub is busy, and Draco is grateful for the low lighting and the corner table they’ve chosen and for Theo’s voice, chattering on about Daphne’s paintings and Pansy’s new girlfriend and the book on Astronomy he’s planning to start later that week, a constant source of conversation even when Draco can’t bring himself to speak. 

‘Okay, this is damned good,’ Theo’s saying through a mouthful of steak and ale pie, supplemented by a serving of mashed potato and minted peas on the side. ‘And even _I_ think the portions are massive.’

‘You might have to finish mine,’ Draco manages to say. His chicken and leek pie is perfectly adequate, but he’s not really a pie and mash sort of person at the best of times. Now in particular, he finds he isn’t really tasting it properly. 

A table across the room is occupying most of his thoughts. Four witches in dark robes, around his age, maybe a little older. Maybe they were at Hogwarts together. He’s convinced they keep glancing over at him. He wants to stalk over and confront them, to pull his hood up over his face and sneak out the back door, to apparate back to Rusty’s and not show his face here again for another five years. 

Theo nudges his knee under the table. He lays a hand on Draco’s, which is balled into a fist by the side of his plate. 

‘I’m trying to get back into potions,’ he says out of nowhere, voice low and steady, and Draco tries to focus on the sound of it. ‘Useful skill to have, not one I want to lose, you know. Looks like it’s going to cost me a bloody fortune, though. Have a guess how much stewed Mandrake costs these days. Absolute _scandal…’_

Draco lets his hand relax, threading his fingers together with Theo’s. He picks at the remains of his pie and mash. He listens to Theo ranting about potions prices – ‘Daylight _robbery_ is what it is’ – and feels the tightness in his chest easing a little, the hot feeling behind his eyes starting to cool. 

The four witches are still there, and perhaps they are staring. Perhaps they aren’t. It shouldn’t matter either way. It’s just a pub. He’s not doing anything wrong. He has every right to be here. 

After a while, he’s so obviously relaxed that Theo even suggests they stay for dessert.

Draco shakes his head. ‘We should head back.’

‘You all right?’ Theo’s tone is light, but his eyes are careful, concerned.

‘Fine. It’s not that. This was nice,’ he says, and he means it. ‘I’m glad we came.’

‘You didn’t have anything to prove to me, you know,’ Theo says, and Draco knows he’s talking about more than just dinner tonight. 

_I did,_ Draco thinks. _But more than that, I wanted to._

‘I know. Thank you.’ He clears his throat, and continues, 'I’m still asking you to skip dessert, though.’ He leans in, lowers his voice, fixes Theo with a pointedly arched eyebrow. ‘You’ve already had a lot of pie, and I have fairly ambitious plans for the rest of the evening. I would prefer you weren’t too full to keep up.’

Theo practically falls over himself in his hurry to get their cloaks. 

*

Back at the flat, Draco drags Theo directly into his bedroom.

‘Straight to the point, I see,’ Theo teases, his breath catching as Draco flops down into his lap. The space in said lap is limited by the spread of his belly, which Draco feels pushing into his own flat stomach. ‘No messing about here.’

‘If we stayed out there, you would get distracted by Mara,’ Draco says reasonably. ‘You’ve made it perfectly clear that you prefer my dog to me.’

Theo looks up at him, his hands on Draco’s hips. Secure, reassuring. ‘It would take a hell of a lot to distract me right now.’ 

Draco gives him a smile that’s almost shy, and leans down to kiss him. He doesn’t feel the need to rush anything tonight. Nothing to worry about. Nothing to prove. He feels his own shirt slipping off his shoulders and starts working his way through the buttons of Theo’s, shuffling back for better access to the lower ones, where the push of their stomachs together gets in the way.

‘You look so fucking good,’ Theo tells him, voice low, and Draco opens his mouth to return the compliment. And then he shuts it. 

Theo does look good. Draco has never doubted this. His curling brown hair and neat beard, his cheeky blue eyes and the crooked smile that is far more charming than it has any right to be. And, now more than ever, he wants to touch him – cup the soft weight of his chest where it droops a little, follow the trail of dark hair from his chest to his navel, pinch his soft sides where the fat settles nicely into thick rolls. 

But he’s hit with a sudden wave of uncertainty. He isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do, what he’s allowed to do – as if touching any part of Theo and drawing attention to the extra flesh there would somehow be bad manners. 

Which is ridiculous. Theo knows perfectly well what his body looks like, how it’s going to feel under Draco’s touch. He’s never tried to pretend that he isn’t fat. He never seems to have an issue getting undressed in front of Draco, even when Draco himself has been self-conscious. 

‘You okay?’ Theo asks, and now this is definitely going in the wrong direction. He doesn’t want Theo to worry, to think that he’s panicking again and that Theo needs to take care of him. 

Perhaps Draco should just tell him. Perhaps he wouldn’t mind, would be amused by Draco’s very British awkwardness and desire to be polite. But saying ‘I’ve never had sex with a fat guy, is it different, what am I supposed to do’ hardly seems like the best way to improve _any_ situation. And it isn’t as though Theo is huge. Not so big there would be any serious logistical issues to work around. Probably?

‘I’ve never –’ Draco finds himself saying, and forces himself to stop talking so quickly that he almost squeaks.

‘Draco, I know you’ve had sex before. We have had sex. Together. With each other. I know it was a while ago, but I assume you haven’t forgotten.’

Draco purses his lips, exasperated and fond.

‘Oh.’ Theo nods gravely, adopting a tone of utmost understanding. ‘You’ve never had sex with someone as exceptionally attractive as I am. That makes sense. Few people have. I know I’m wildly out of your league, but there’s no need to feel self-conscious.’

Draco doesn’t really do self-deprecating humour, and he’s never quite sure how to respond to it from others. He rolls his eyes, and Theo grins, looking very pleased with himself.

He’s trying to find the right words, because he feels he does need to say this, needs to say _something,_ but he doesn’t want it to come out wrong. But somewhere in the midst of his tangled thoughts, he finds himself glancing at Theo’s midsection. Slouched on the bed like he is, it mounds up shamelessly.

Draco is apparently woefully unsubtle, because Theo follows his gaze before he can snatch his eyes away. He starts to sit up, the movement pushing Draco away from him. 

‘Theo –’

‘Look, you can do this with me, or you can have a problem with my weight.’ Theo sounds quietly defiant. ‘You can’t do both.’

‘I don’t,’ Draco says quickly. ‘I don’t have a problem.’ He pauses. ‘You think I do?’

Theo shrugs. ‘I’m getting mixed messages. On the one hand, you blatantly throw a lot of food my way. On the other…’ 

Draco thinks of all the times he’s felt flustered about Theo’s body, when he’s touched him uncertainly or stolen a quick look before hastily averting his gaze. Times when he thought he was being subtle, but, perhaps, was not.

‘Well.’ Theo shrugs again. ‘We all know you’re a shallow bastard, Draco. I’m sure I’m not your usual type.’

Theo doesn’t sound insecure, as such; his words are more matter-of-fact than anything. And perhaps there is an element of truth to them. Still, Draco doesn’t like hearing words like this from him. Doesn’t like that he might assume Draco is thinking them.

‘I am a little shallow,’ Draco concedes. He positions himself over Theo again, settling in his lap, hands resting on his shoulders. ‘I make a habit of only sleeping with very beautiful people.’

The corners of Theo’s mouth twitch. ‘Nice of you to make an exception.’

‘I’m very strict about that rule.’ He closes the remaining distance between them, feeling the soft brush of Theo’s beard and the little grunts in his throat as he deepens the kiss. He rolls his hips slowly, deliberately, just in case Theo still has doubts about Draco's _considerable_ interest in the proceedings. ‘I don’t make exceptions, Theodore.’

*

Draco takes a moment to catch his breath, curling up against Theo and watching the heavy rise and fall of his chest, the little wobble of his belly. He says, offhand, ‘Well, that went much better than the last time we tried.’ 

Theo looks so astonished that Draco has made a joke – and a self-deprecating one at that – that he simply stares at him for a moment. Then his face splits into a grin and he barks out a breathless laugh. ‘Bloody hell, Draco.’

Once they've cleaned up, Theo lies back on the bed, an arm crooked behind his head, looking immensely relaxed. Draco grabs his wand from the bedside table. ‘Do you still want dessert?’

Theo raises an eyebrow at him in a way that says _Have you met me._ ‘Am I being rewarded for sex with cake? You’re setting a dangerous precedent here, Draco.’

Draco takes the lid off the tin he's summoned. He’d made a raspberry and almond bake that morning. It’s already cut into perfect squares, piled up neatly inside the tin. He puts one of the squares on a plate, then adds another piece for good measure. ‘What makes you think you deserve a reward?’

Theo furrows his brow and Draco grins, leaning back against Theo’s chest as he eats.

‘Do you sell this at Rusty’s? You should. It’s bloody good.’

‘Not yet. It’ll be on the menu next week.’ Draco brushes a few curls of dark hair out of Theo’s face, completely unnecessarily, just because he can. ‘I’ve been thinking about changing the name,’ he ventures. Somehow, it feels like a huge thing to admit out loud. ‘Seems odd to own a place that’s named after someone else’s dog.’

‘Oh? Have you got something in mind?’

A little sheepish in case Theo thinks he’s being overly sentimental – which he is, but screw it – he says, ‘Mara’s.’

Theo grins. ‘You’re soft as anything really, aren’t you?’

‘You’re supposed to say, _What a brilliant idea, Draco.’_

‘What a brilliant idea, Draco,’ he mimics, in an unflattering imitation of Draco’s clipped accent. Draco steals a bit of cake from his plate in retaliation.

After the last crumb of cake is gone, Theo makes a contended sort of sound and sets the plate aside. He rests a hand on his belly as if surprised by how far it bows out in front of him. Feeling happy and satisfied and perhaps a little bold, Draco reaches out and places a hand on it too. He gently strokes along the roll at the bottom of his tummy, soft as butter, flecked with stretchmarks that glisten silver in the dim light. 

Theo watches him, and when Draco meets his eye, he grumbles, ‘It’s your fault I’m getting this fat, you know.’ 

Draco arches an eyebrow. He stills his hand, gives the doughy flesh a pinch. ‘I’m certain you don’t need my help.’

‘You keep _baking_ me things.’

‘You keep eating them.’

‘You’ve got me there.’ He looks at Draco, then at Draco’s hand on his stomach. Draco looks too, at the contrast of his lean forearm against the soft rolls, the splash of blue roses against the dark hair. ‘I didn’t say _stop.’_

Draco grins and resumes his belly rub. ‘If you really don’t want me to bake for you, I won’t. I can ban you from my shop. Drag you out running with me and Mara. Take Daphne’s side when she nags you about what you eat.’

‘God, that sounds dreadful.’

Draco snorts. ‘All right then.’

‘And – you don’t mind?’ The words are casual enough, in Theo’s usual easy manner. As though he’s just checking, just to be sure. As though he just wants to hear Draco say it again.

_You look wonderful like this. And you seem so comfortable with yourself. I don’t think I’ve ever felt that, not really. I want to find a way of feeling it, Theo. I want to find it with you._

‘No, Theodore,’ he says, as Theo slides a thick arm around his shoulders, pulling him closer. ‘I certainly don’t mind.’


End file.
